bedside book pile 08.14.13

August 14, 2013

Some of the books piled at my bedside include:

• Letters To A Young Poet, by Rainer Maria Rilke
Am I again the last to know? I had never heard of Rilke until I recently read a Rilke quotation, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves…”

(Another Rilke quote,“Ah, how good it is to be among people who are reading!”)

• Lean In: Women, Work, and The Will to Lead, by Sheryl Sandberg
Everyone has an opinion on this book, and I think many? Most? of those with opinions have not read it. I want to see what the fuss is about. I am ashamed to admit my first reaction to this book was, “Oh good grief, am I not doing enough already? And now you want me to play like a boy? No thanks.” Then my young, hip, cycling instructor asked if anyone in the cycling class had heard of Sharon Sandberg’s book. I was the only one who had heard of it. She asked excitedly if I had read it and seemed disappointed that I had not. She gushed about the book and said it had great advice for both women and men, working or stay at home. So, I just read the introduction yesterday where Sandberg clearly states, “Whatever this book is, I am writing it for any woman who wants to increase her chances of making it to the top of her field or pursue any goal vigorously.” (emphasis and bold are mine.)

She also says, “I am also writing it for any man who wants to understand what a woman—a colleague, wife, mother or daughter—is up against so he can do his part to build an equal world.”

I’m hooked and I’ll keep you posted.

• They Dyslexic Advantage: Unlocking the Hidden Potential of the Dyslexic Brain, by Eide and Eide.
I started this one out of anxiety about my dyslexic son succeeding in high school…and since he’s doing well…it has been gathering dust. I should start reading it again as my anxiety has started to grow when I think about him keeping up with reading in college. He has two more years of high school, but no time like the present to worry.

• Norton Anthology of Poetry
Because I can flip open a page and receive a gift, like this:

Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?